For a Friend
by Burc'ya Ordo
Summary: A new Power arrives in 1920's New York City.  Delilah, Kenta, and Flynn must team up again to uncover the truth behind a recent massacre while working with the only survivor: an immigrant holding a Holy Sword for a friend.  Sequel to Ivory Tower.
1. Prologue: Never Go By Boat, Part I

Prologue: Never Go by Boat, Part I

Despite the fact that the sun had fallen hours ago, New York City still languished in a hellish July heat. The price of ice had skyrocketed, and most businesses shifted their schedules to operate in the slightly cooler hours after nightfall. The City's teeming streets emptied during the day, but at night all but a few were packed with people buying, selling, and praying for a cold snap.

Two figures walked side-by-side down one of the few empty streets, arguing philosophy. One, a pale old man with a wide, floppy hat, said in heavily-slurred tones, "Mr. O'Connell, you know as well as I that everything must start somewhere. What better place for the chicken to start than the egg?"

"That's just it, Kenta," replied his tall, dark-haired companion, who appeared just as well-oiled. "What laid the egg? Where would the egg come from, if not from a chicken?"

Just as the short man opened his mouth for a rebuttal, he was grabbed and pulled into the nearby alleyway by a pair of thick arms. Rather than being surprised by this, the tall one seemed…pleased. Spinning his cane, he ignored the ripping sounds coming from the alley, looking up and admiring the full moon.

The short one emerged from the alley after almost a minute looking slightly mussed and carrying three metal cages. Inside of each cage was a head with green-glowing eyes, fanged mouths still moving and spitting. "You were correct, Mr. O'Connell," the old man said, all trace of inebriation gone. "These are yōkai, monsters, from my own country. Three Nuekubi, likely feeding on the drunk and those travelling alone. Some of their kind are actually rather honorable: one or two were even my friends, years ago. These three, however…" he looked down at the loudly-cursing monsters.

Flynn nodded. "Alright, so decapitation didn't work. What actually kills them?"

Kenta loosed a deep laugh. "Ne, ne, Mr. O'Connell, these are actually their true forms: their bodies are merely disguises to fool their prey." Flynn looked mildly disgusted. Kenta shrugged. "As for how to kill them? Keep them away from their bodies until daybreak. Without them, the sunlight will turn the Nuekubi into dust." The heads stopped cursing and began pleading for their lives.

"So, just keep them in their cages?"

"I would bury their bodies as well, or throw them in a lake. They cannot swim, and they will dash themselves against the ground trying to dig up their bodies. Failing that, simply destroying the head will do." To demonstrate, Kenta held up one cage and tapped it. With a sharp squealing sound, the cage began to shrink, the creature inside screaming until, with a horrible crack, the shrinking cage crushed its skull. Flynn winced, and the other two monsters began beating against their cages and screaming.

"That…won't be necessary, Kenta. We can simply keep them at the Bureau until dawn." He covered his ears as the disembodied heads sent up another wail, begging for mercy. Glaring down at the monsters, Kenta's eyes narrowed, and the cages transformed into boxes as the bars flattened and connected. The noise level dropped significantly, though a tinny screaming continued.

Flynn uncovered his ears and nodded his thanks to Kenta. He frowned as he looked the two boxes. "They've killed three women and two men just this month, but the moment they're caught they begin pleading for their lives. Just like human criminals."

Kenta passed one of the metal boxes to Flynn. "The thing I admire most about your kind is your versatility. I have seen humans become saints to rival the Buddha himself, and I have seen them become monsters worse than any born to that title: demons who know neither honor nor mercy." He shrugged as they began walking back to the Bureau of Investigation warehouse. "It is ironic how humans often make the best villains."

* * *

><p>Delilah wove her way through the crowded speakeasy, greeting each of the guests with a warm smile and a touch on the shoulder. Arriving on the bar, her calm and level tone somehow managed to pierce the good-natured din. "Anthony? How are we doing on stock?"<p>

Behind the bar, her head employee deftly passed off three glasses of something amber-colored and bubbly before turning to face her. "Looks like we got about enough for the rest of the week, ma'am. Any longer than that, and we're gonna be scraping the bottom of the barrel. So to speak," he added with a smirk, pulling out a bottle of champagne with a flourish and passing it over to the waitress, Sara. She, in turn, carried it over to a well-dressed older gentleman and his young escorts. "Business has never been better, though."

Delilah's full lips curved into a smile. "I do so enjoy hearing that, Anthony. I shall go order more product immediately. Mr. Rothstein should have no trouble supplying us fully by the weekend."

Anthony leaned over the bar conspiratorially. "And boss? Could you sing something lively tonight? Last time you sang something sad, we went through most of our stock of the hard stuff before the night was through."

At that moment, Clarke the doorman opened the heavy front door and admitted someone rarely seen at the bar. Someone who made Delilah curse under her breath.

The man was short, barely five-foot six, but every eye in the room turned to watch him strut past. His looks were what one would call 'classically handsome', with a chiseled jaw, a Roman nose, and strong cheekbones. As he passed, men and women alike found themselves breathlessly staring at his wiry frame. The band stopped playing to stare, and no one noticed. Stepping up to the bar, he winked and said, "I believe I'll have some wine. Oldest vintage you've got. She'll pay for it." He waved in Delilah's general direction.

Anthony paused, caught between wanting to please this strangely compelling man and his desire to keep his job. He directed a pleading glance at Delilah, who rolled her eyes but nodded. The bartender carefully pulled a dusty bottle from behind the bar and passed it over to the handsome stranger. "Thanks, handsome," the man said, running a finger along Anthony's jawline. The bartender shuddered as the man strutted over to the back rooms and into Delilah's private office.

The shaken bartender turned to his boss. "S-s-so you know that guy? Boyfriend?"

"Worse," answered Delilah, quietly sighing. "My father."

She turned and strutted over to her office, easing the hearts and minds of every nearby male. Anthony watched, but still seemed shaken until an idea popped into his head. Pulling a spoon, he dropped it on the other side of the bar.

"Hey, Sara?" The pretty waitress came over to the bar, still staring off at where her boss had just gone. "Could you get that spoon for me?"

Without thinking, the willowy young woman turned and bent to retrieve the spoon. Acting quickly, Anthony backpedalled away from the bar as far as he could. When Sarah stood and turned to hand it to him, he was just out of arm's reach grabbing for a high bottle. She leaned over the bar, stretching as far as she could, and handed it to him. "Thank you, Sara."

"No problem, Tony," she replied straightening her shirt, a knowing look in her eye. She headed back to collect more orders, an extra sway to her step.

Anthony sighed, watching the lovely young thing go about her work. "Thank you for restoring my priorities," he muttered, a lecherous grin crossing his lips.

* * *

><p>Delilah stepped into her office, carefully closing the door behind her. She quirked an eyebrow at the handsome man with his rear planted firmly in her seat. Sighing, she seated herself on the opposite side of her desk and asked, "Is this just a social visit, Claude? Or did you have something to talk to me about?"<p>

Claude Raith grinned. "Is it such a terrible thing to want to visit my daughter?" he asked, charm dripping from his tone. At Delilah's incredulous look, he barked out a laugh. "Alright, alright. Straight to business, then."

In an instant, he went from Claude the playboy, to Claude Raith, only surviving cousin to the White King. His shoulders went back, his legs swung down off of her desk, and his presence immediately went from relaxed to regal. "The Family has a task for you to do, Delilah."

Delilah straightened her own immaculate posture in response. "I live to serve," she responded primly, but not without a drop of cynicism.

Claude briefly cracked a smile. "Of course you do." His eyes locked onto hers as the smile vanished. "You are friends with Arnold Rothstein." It wasn't a question. "The King himself wants to know how much Rothstein knows about our world and the supernatural in general. If he knows too much, he could become a liability, in which case…"

"In which case, I will take care of it." A block of marble showed more emotion than Delilah's face at that moment.

Claude nodded briskly and stood. He paused in the act of walking around her desk, grabbing a small picture-frame. "Cute girl," he said, and suddenly Claude the playboy was back and grinning. He slipped the picture into his coat pocket and left the office.

Delilah followed him out and to the door. She watched as he winked at Clarke, who wordlessly opened the massive steel door.

Claude had just stepped out of the door, looking back to blow Delilah a kiss, when he walked face-first into something heavy. Stumbling back into the building, he recovered his balance just as a pale hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" Kenta asked the man who had walked into him, tone friendly.

Claude recovered quickly. "Oh, I'm just fine." He looked this new kine up and down, going through his mental checklist. 'Broad shoulders, narrow waist, obvious muscle, love the color of his skin, but he's just too old.' "Just watch where you're going in the future, grandpa." Clapping the pale old man on the shoulder, Claude exited the speakeasy, singing a jaunty tune as he went.

Kenta looked over to his on/off employer. "Is there something I should know about?"

Delilah rubbed her exposed arms and motioned Clarke to close the door. "No, Kenta. Nothing you need to know about."

* * *

><p>Out in the Bay, a grisly scene floated slowly into New York Harbor. Hauling of immigrants from Ireland, the ship had been scheduled to arrive a day earlier. Now the reason for its absence became clear. The boat was covered in dried blood: corpses lay everywhere, either riddled with bullet-holes or with body-parts missing. From the hold to the deck, every man, woman, and child had been slaughtered – save for three. A murderer and two future victims.<p>

A man crouched behind a lifeboat, peeking up and beyond for a moment before ducking his head back under. "The coast is clear for now," he said to the light-haired man huddled beside him. As soon as he said it, a flash of green light ripped through the hull of the lifeboat and struck him in the side. There was a blaze of searing pain, and then the left side of his gut was simply gone. He screamed in pain and rage, somehow managing to push the lifeboat off of its mooring and onto his attacker, knocking him prone.

The pale- haired man stood and moved to help his wounded companion, but the dying man would have none of it. "Take this," he commanded, slapping a long metal object into his compatriot's hand. "Keep it safe until someone comes for it. Promise me!" The man could only nod.

A looming shadow was their only warning, and the sudden roaring of a revolver was the last thing the pale-haired man heard. The bullet pierced his head, running straight through his brain and out the other side. Wordlessly, the man tumbled off of the boat and into the Harbor.

The moon came out from behind the clouds, and the dying man saw his murderer's face revealed. His skin was pebbly, lizard-like, and his pupils were large vertical bars. In a hissing voice, the monster asked, "Do you really think that will stop us? The Sword will be found and destroyed. You have failed." There was another flash of green, followed by agonized scream.

Hundreds of yards away, the cold waters of the bay turned red around a pale-haired body as it floated toward the beach.

* * *

><p>AN

Merry Christmas!

Not much to say beside "Welcome to another story in 1920's Dresden". I'll be back to my usual once-per-week update schedule. Expect longer chapters, more characters, and (hopefully) improved writing. **Ivory Tower** may be done, but **For a Friend** is just beginning!

Also, I somehow managed to injure my back rather badly, so I'll be laid up for a few weeks. If you ask, I may be able to fit a few bonus chapters or whatever you ask for into my busy (empty) schedule. Vale te!

A/N 2

Sorry about the re-upload. I made a mistake and uploaded an older version.


	2. Chapter 1: Atlantic City Setup

A/N

Remember how I said my back had me laid up? Apparently, that was the result of a degenerative bone disease. So, not much time for writing, and sitting in any position gets painful after about ten minutes. Then college hit again.

So what I'm saying is, I'm sorry this took so bloody long. It didn't help that I lost upwards of 100,000 words when my hard-drive failed. Trying to get back on a real schedule after 6 months. Please read and review so I can improve!

PS – When you get to the Traveler (read: Pikey, gypsy), try reading his lines aloud. It makes more sense.

* * *

><p>For a Friend<p>

Chapter 1: Atlantic City Setup

"Flynn? Flynn! Get your ass up, lad, we've got another doozy."

Flynn O'Connell, Bureau of Investigation agent, wizard, and all-around good-guy, slowly opened his eyes. Yawning, he stretched, wondering just when his alarm clock started speaking with a thick Scottish accent. Glancing around, he was surprised to note that he had not in fact made it home last night. Looking down at the stack of papers he had been using as a pillow, he grinned as he noticed that they were officially filled out and ready for archiving. 'I should fall asleep on the job more often,' he thought, yawning

"Flynn? If I find you sleeping again, you rascal, I'll use you to practice my caber toss." Robert Eire, Head of the BI Department of Paranormal Crime, stormed into the clearing between aisles and file cabinets that formed Flynn's 'office'. Flynn's first reaction was to laugh as his boss came into view wearing full Highland gear, complete with sporran and blue-plaid kilt.

Eire leveled a glare at his favorite, and only, subordinate. "Poor lad, your sense of humor's gone and died again. Let me know when you get a new one." Flynn's only response was to laugh harder. Eire sighed and took a seat on the stack of papers opposite Flynn's desk. "Tell me when you're done, lad," he sighed, resting his chin on his palm.

Seeing his boss' serious expression, Flynn put aside his merriment, wiping a tear from his eye. "What do you need, Bob? I've already got the Red Hook murders squared away, and you're going on vacation." The agent's eyes again roamed over his boss' unique garb. "I figured the Bureau would send most of its work to one of the 'legitimate' branches, and leave you to the Highland Games."

Eire sighed and passed Flynn a small folder. "I'd love to say it's that simple, Flynn. But ever since your 'adventure' at the Opera House last September, the President seems to think you have an 'in' with the mob. And that sorry nitwit who runs the Bureau loves to give us the hard jobs." He gestured at the file. "Read."

Flynn opened the folder and skimmed its contents, his face growing pale. "Why weren't we informed of this months ago?"

Eire shook his head. "The Bureau only learned about it a few days ago. Whatever they're up to, it's got to be big. The mob's gone to a lot of trouble to make sure nobody knows about it." The Scotsman dropped his head into his hands. "The President said nobody else could do the job, and Mr. J. Edgar Hoover agreed. So it's up to us."

"No, it's up to me," Flynn said firmly, snapping the file shut and standing. "You have a zeppelin to catch and some logs to toss." Eire opened his mouth to argue, but, Flynn cut him off. "You haven't had a vacation in twenty years, Bob. Go home, see your family, toss the caber, put the stone, and get roaring drunk. You've earned it, and I can handle this."

The old man's eyes reignited with hope, but he wasn't willing to foist this off so easily. "I don't want to leave all of this up to you alone, Flynn. You'll work yourself to death!"

Flynn smiled as he ushered his boss out the door. "Small chance of that, boss." He closed the door behind Eire and looked at the file again. "Small chance indeed."

* * *

><p>Arnold Rothstein, the best dressed mobster to ever swagger out of New York, walked along the Atlantic City boardwalk and pointed out notable stores, speakeasies, and politicians to his lovely escort. The red-haired bombshell on his arm took in all of the information he could give her, often laughing at his stories.<p>

"That guy over there?" he said, pointing at a large man seated at a café table, surrounded by paperwork. "That's 'Nucky' Thompson. He runs the show around here. Nice enough guy. We play poker once a month when we can swing it." He glanced around to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation before adding, "The 'event' this afternoon was almost entirely his idea, and he's agreed to play host to the lot of us for the duration."

Delilah nodded politely as Rothstein prattled on about the poker games he'd played in over the past few years. Eventually, talk turned to the Ivory Tower, which she had recently taken up full ownership of.

"And how is Kenta working out as an employee?" Rothstein asked, a small smirk on his face.

Delilah rolled her eyes, a hand her hip. "About as well as any old man would. He stays in a corner and tells stories to those who ask." She spared a glance behind her, as though to make sure the albino mercenary was not behind them, listening. "He has apparently been working with Mr. O'Connell of the Bureau."

Rothstein raised an eyebrow. "The young man who helped during that debacle last September? Has he been making trouble for your business?"

Delilah shook her head. "Other than drinking most of my whiskey stock, no. They've been…" she hesitated for a moment, eyes flicking to Rothstein's face for a moment, "hunting."

The mob-boss blinked before shaking his head and subtly shifting the conversation to more public-friendly conversation.

The two walked along the boardwalk, chatting amiably, until they came to the end of the wooden planks. Rothstein turned to the young woman with a smile. "I'd like to thank you for joining me for this little conference, Delilah. I truly enjoy your company and sparkling conversation." A trio of sailors walking past almost fell off of the boardwalk as they stared at the ravishing beauty. "And that helps, too." Rothstein added, laughing.

Despite the warm July weather, Delilah was dressed very conservatively. Her pale gray skirt went down to her ankles, and her ivory blouse fully covered both her shoulders and her bountiful chest. Snow-white , elbow-length gloves finished out her old-fashioned ensemble, . Many would say that it was impossible to be alluring in such clothes. Many would thank their lucky stars when she proved just how wrong they were.

Delilah smiled demurely at her ex-boss. "It is my pleasure, Mr. Rothstein." The world seemed to hush as she spoke, with nearby couples stopping conversations to listen. "I enjoy spending time with you, as well." A moment passed where nothing was said, though Rothstein's smile could have lit up Time Square. "Though I must admit, this heat is positively ghastly." She pulled a fan from her purse and tried to get some air moving.

Rothstein cleared his throat and checked his watch. "Then I guess it's good news that the first meeting will start soon. We should probably head back to The Happy Clam."

The two walked briskly back up the boardwalk, passing half-a-dozen empty lemonade vendors and ice-carts. Neither said a word until they arrived at a crowded restaurant, the sign above which proudly proclaimed it 'The Happy Clam'. "Well, this is where the meeting takes place, my dear," Rothstein said, glancing again at his golden watch. "And we're right on-time for the first meeting at noon."

Peering over his arm, Delilah quirked an eyebrow when she saw the time: 11:35. Noting her quizzical look, Rothstein laughed. "If you're not early, you're late. It's just a good business practice, Delilah." He patted her arm and walked into the restaurant, still chuckling.

Delilah stood absolutely still for a moment, staring at the spot on her arm where he had touched her. A shadow passed over her face for a moment, but the moment passed and her charming smile returned as she followed her quarry into the building.

* * *

><p>The room was bustling with people shouting for glasses of lemonade and water. Rothstein squeezed through the crowd with many apologies and quick jokes. Delilah merely walked forward imperiously, watching as men literally threw themselves out of her way. They arrived at the stairs simultaneously, where they were stopped by a dozen men wearing thick coats despite the heat. Rothstein's bodyguards, who had until now been shadowing the boss and his former employee, stepped forward for a whispered conversation before joining the group.<p>

Delilah posed nonchalantly as they checked her for visible weaponry. Rothstein was patted down. Once both were cleared, they went up the stairs to the private loft. There, they saw the men who owned New York. Mobsters, crooked politicians, business owners: the most influential men on the Eastern Seaboard. Several of them raised a glass to Rothstein as he entered, and most of them stood to acknowledge the presence of a lady. Rothstein nodded back to his greeters and pulled out a chair for his escort. Delilah gracefully took her seat, as did everyone else in the room, signaling the start of the meeting.

'Nucky' Thompson, as host, was the first to speak. "Welcome, gentlemen. I appreciate everyone coming despite your businesses and other concerns." There was a rumbling throughout the room as some of those present grumbled to themselves. "Now, the first order of business-"

He was interrupted by Joe Masseria, Boss of the Genovese family. The short, heavy-faced mobster lazily raised a hand. "I have a question," he said in heavily-accented English. Not waiting for further acknowledgment, he continued "Why is the head of security for this big of an 'event' a Jap? Why should we trust him?"

Rothstein's eyes narrowed at the man while the rest of the room echoed with quiet agreement: growing up in a Jewish family in New York had given Rothstein his fill of racism and bigotry. "Listen, Joe," he ground out, teeth clenched in anger. "Kenta's a good friend of mine, and I have every faith in his capabilities."

Masseria waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. Every faith. But how do we know _we_ can trust him? You all know how those guys are. Every one of 'em's got six or seven faces, and you never know which one will lie to you next." There was another faint rumbling of agreement until Thompson slammed a hand on the table.

"Gentlemen!" the imposing man said in a not-quite shout, and every other man at the table quieted. "I, too, have every faith in the man's abilities. He's done a few jobs for both Mr. Rothstein and me, and I've learned to expect much from him. Besides," he added, grinning to lighten the mood, "I've paid him until the end of the week. How long can I trust you, Kenta?"

A firm voice answered from the chair behind Masseria. "Until the end of the week, Mr. Thompson."

Masseria jumped, and everyone at the table turned to stare at the formerly-unoccupied chair. Two dark eyes blinked lazily in response

Rothstein began to laugh. Leaning over to Delilah, he whispered, "He pulled that trick the day first we met. Scared two or three years off my life. Good to see Joe's getting a similar treatment."

Thompson cleared his throat. "Very well, gentlemen. If there will be no more interruptions?" The massive man glared around the table. When no one dared respond, he nodded. "Very good. Alright, the first order of business: Mr. Masseria has an argument with Mr. Jackson over the product in East Quaker street. If you two gentlemen would please explain further?"

* * *

><p>Flynn walked down the boardwalk, enjoying the brisk breeze off of the ocean. The sun was just dropping beneath the waves, and the ungodly heat had finally dropped off as well. He wore his finest suit and a fine, feathered chapeau he had just purchased that morning.<p>

Glancing around, the investigator took in his surroundings: tourists gawking at the stunning sunset, local stores either just opening for the night's entertainment or just closing after a long day's work. And sticking out as though holding torches were the three-dozen mobsters milling around in front of one particular restaurant.

The detective began truly observing the situation: Judging by the way all of them seemed to mimic skyscrapers in height and width, they were either enforcers or bodyguards. Their sheer number combined with the suspicion with which they viewed one another, they were working for multiple bosses. Put these observations together, and he had found his goal: a meeting of all bosses in New York.

Pausing to enjoy the beautiful vista before him, Flynn couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched…

Partially obscured behind signs and the milling crowd, Kenta and his current partner at the front door watched Flynn with interest.

Glancing over at the old man, the other bodyguard grunted and reached up to adjust his tin half-mask. "You know that guy?" he asked in a rusty voice.

Kenta nodded. "He is a Bureau of Investigations Agent. His presence here worries me."

The masked man nodded. "You want I should take care of him?" he offered, tapping the shotgun positioned behind his leg.

"Too noisy," Kenta replied, displaying the dagger hidden in his palm. Then he shook his head. "Besides, there is only one thing about him that is threatening right now, Mr. Harrow." The old man took aim with a throwing knife, careful to conceal it from passers-by.

Flynn leaned against the railing, unaware of the two seasoned killers staring at his back. There was a sudden breeze, and his hat fell off of his head and onto the sand beneath the boardwalk. Staring down at the hat, he saw a small metal object embedded in it: a knife. He turned quickly, ducking, only recognizing his attacker when he had already begun a spell to counterattack. "Kenta?" he muttered, brow furrowing in confusion.

The old mercenary stepped forward. "Do not worry, my friend. I have saved your head from that abomination."

Flynn blinked at that, and then laughed. "It was a hat, Kenta. Not some obscure monster."

Kenta gave him a blank look before leaning over the railing. "That is not a hat. That is a sin against your God and a crime against nature itself."

"I happen to like that hat," Flynn responded, eyes narrowing. 'Either Kenta has gone senile, or...' He watched as the old man jumped off the edge of the boardwalk to the sand fifteen feet below. '…no, I think he's just gone senile.'

Picking himself up, Kenta dusted the sand from his suit with a word and a gesture. He had just reached out to grab the offending article of clothing when something along the shoreline distracted him. Leaving the hat, the old man walked over toward what appeared to be an oddly-shaped pile of driftwood. Drawing closer, his aged eyes distinguished clothing, a shining piece of metal, and a mop of red hair. He paused to smell the air: beneath the smell of the sea, there was blood all over this person.

Flynn heard his name being called, and in the dying light of the evening spotted Kenta waving him over. Flynn sighed and walked over to the nearby stairs. He descended, pausing to collect his hat along the way, and calmly strolled over to the mercenary. What he saw gave him pause. "Kenta? Is that a man?"

The old mercenary knelt by the figure and put a hand to his throat. "Yes. And still alive."

Flynn immediately raced back to the boardwalk to dial for an ambulance. Kenta knelt at the blood-covered man's side, examining his wounds. After several moments he looked up, glancing around for any sign of other people. Spotting no one, he grimaced and put a hand on the wounded man's head.

The sun finally disappeared over the horizon just as a flash of white lit up the beach.

* * *

><p>Flynn stifled a yawn as the hospital's head doctor began listing off injuries. "Bullet to the head. Entered here, and exited here. Signs of trauma, broken fingers and such. And, as best as I can judge, about five hours of exposure to the elements." The doctor paused in his clinical observations to look up at the BI employee. "This man is lucky to be alive, so don't expect him to wake up anytime soon. As a matter of fact, I don't anticipate him ever waking up."<p>

Flynn looked down at the injured man, watching his slow, steady breathing. Something caught the light as he turned, and he pulled back the covers. He exposed a gleaming sword, a saber, which was still firmly clasped in the patient's hands.

Hanging the clipboard back at the base of the patient's bed, the doctor gestured at the blade. "We tried everything we could to get him to drop the damned thing. He won't let go. In the end, it was either leave it on him or take his fingers off. Personally, I don't care either way anymore." Grabbing his stethoscope from its nearby perch, the doctor nodded to the BI agent. "If there is nothing else, Agent O'Connell? A nurse will be in to see to him soon."

Flynn shook his head, and the doctor left. The agent took a seat next to the comatose patient and pulled out his trusty notepad.

"Damage done by a.45 bullet, not a blade, claw, or arcane instrument. Patient is not likely to awaken, so no interrogations right now. Possible connection to this case?" He tapped his pencil next to the question, mouth twisted in thought. He moved on to the next line. "Patient refuses to let go of a sword, which is amazingly clean of rust after being exposed to the ocean." Flynn sighed as the questions kept stacking up. Looking down at the comatose man, he closed his eyes and quietly asked, "Who are you, and what are you doing with a sword?"

"Keppin' it fer a friend," came the feeble reply.

Flynn straightened in surprise, staring at the weakly-moving patient. "How are you moving? The doctor said you were lucky to be alive!"

"Guhd food, ex'rcise, and clen livin'," the man replied quickly, words blurring together. He reached down and patted at his hospital gown. "Where're me cigarettes?

Flynn frowned, trying to interpret the slurred words and thick accent. He knew the accent came from his native Ireland, but the speed at which this strange man was speaking threw him off.

Meanwhile, the man sat up in bed, holding his head in pain. "Where'm ah? An' who's ben beatin' me like me red 'eaded step-brother?"

The agent finally placed the accent with a forsaken, but quiet, groan. "You're a Traveler, aren't you? A _Pavee_?"

"Right ye're, yah win the prize," he replied in that same hurried fashion, glancing about the room with a suspicious eye.

Flynn groaned internally. 'Travelers' were essentially Irish gypsies: highly insular, suspicious of outsiders, and disrespectful toward all forms of external authority. Steadying himself for a long interrogation, he resolved to do his duty. "Alright, then. Do you mind if I ask you some questions? I work for the Bureau."

For a moment, the man was absolutely still. But he quickly returned to his grinning self and replied, "I s'pose. What d'ya need?" He rubbed his head absently, feeling over the bandages.

The agent pulled out his notepad again. "Right. How did you wind up on a beach in New Jersey? Your people never leave Ireland."

"Oh yeah we do," the injured man responded. "No' often, mind ye'h, but we do. I was on the _Sant Ant'ony_. Things went to shite. Made fer a lifeboat wit a dark-skinned fella. Things didn' improve much."

Flynn checked the notes he'd hurriedly written up before coming to the hospital. He'd checked for ships that had lost a passenger, or had simply failed to arrive. The _Saint Anthony_ was one of the latter. "The _Saint Anthony_ hasn't made port yet. It's still only two days late, though. Can you define 'things went to shite' for me?"

"Pe'ple died, things caugh' fire, we ran outta beer," he replied. Then his eyes narrowed and he added, "Not me fault, mind ye. Wasn' the dark-skinned fella's neither. I know how you cops work." His suspicious gaze landed on Flynn with surprising force.

Unaffected by the distrust, Flynn took notes. His heart fell: he had held onto the vain hope that this was somehow not connected with his case. Now, it sounded like it almost certainly was. Shaking the gloomy thoughts from his head, he went back to his list. "Alright then, sir. Can I get your name and the names of those you are staying with? I might have…other questions."

"Simon Somtinorudder. I'm stayin' down at a place by the beach. 123 Fek Street."

Flynn furrowed his brow, sure he had misheard. He wrote down everything dutifully, however, and moved on to his next question. "Do you know if anyone on board the _Saint Anthony_ was involved with organized crime?" He took a deep breath, preparing himself for a flippant response.

"Orgenized? not relly…"Simon's brow furrowed as he recollected. "There was this one guy," he said, his words for once coming at a normal speed. "Sorta snake-lookin' fella. When he got pissed he was babblin' about getting' past customs and doing somethin' fer his 'family'. I know he's the one that set the fires and kilt' them pe'ple." His words sped up again as he looked to Flynn appraisingly. "I tell ya what. You get me outta here, find me some smokes and some food, an' I just might be able ta point him out in a picture book."

The investigator looked dubious, but nodded slowly. "Answer one more question for me, and I swear to take care of you."

Simon leant back onto the hospital bed's pillows and nodded. "I'll answer anything."

"Was there anything else about this 'fella'? Anything…beyond normal?" The look on Flynn's face turned intense, and he was almost glaring at the injured man.

Simon seemed completely unphased by the scrutiny. "I told ye he looked like a snake, didn' I?"

Flynn nodded slowly. He didn't fully understand, but he knew that the Traveler wouldn't give him any more than that for now. "That's all I need from you right now, Simon. Let's get you fed. I don't know where to find the cigarettes at this hour, though."

"Ah, don' mind. I'll find the bastards, don' cha worry none." The injured man tapped his nose, eliciting a bleak smirk from the overwhelmed investigator.

Simon scooted to the edge of the bed and began leaning weight on his untested legs. The tall investigator reached down a hand and helped the shorter man to his feet. Simon stumbled briefly, still trying to lose his sea-legs and make up for lost blood, but Flynn caught him and stood him up. Together, the two departed the hospital, neither noticing the pair of yellow eyes watching their exit from across the street.

* * *

><p>Delilah emerged from The Happy Clam and stifled a groan of relief as she stretched cramped muscles. She looked up at the darkening sky, marveling at how much time had passed since the meeting began. "How <em>do<em> you deal with all of the politics, Mr. Rothstein?" she asked her companion with false cheer.

He responded in kind, saying, "Well, the first thing I try is reasoning with the politicians. That never works, but at least I can say I tried." He shrugged, chuckling. "It'd make my mother proud, at least."

Delilah shared his mirth until a gust of chill wind made her shiver. Rothstein was perplexed, as the July evening seemed quite temperate to him. Seeing her obvious discomfort, though, Rothstein set his own coat over her shoulders and began leading her along the crowded boardwalk.

"Let's head back to the hotel rooms that Nucky was kind enough to provide. Don't want you catching a cold!" his tone was jovial, but his eyes held a great deal of concern for the woman he called friend.

She smiled demurely at him. "Thank you, Mr. Rothstein." An explosion in the sky caught her attention as red, blue, and white fireworks began streaming into the sky. The two went to the railing alongside the horde of tourists marveling at the stunning display. After several minutes of enjoying the fireworks display, Delilah's brow furrowed. 'Isn't the Fourth tomorrow?' she thought belatedly.

At a discrete distance behind them, Kenta and his masked friend worked their way through the crowd. They paused when the pair they were guarding went to the rail of the boardwalk to admire the fireworks.

Adjusting his half-mask carefully, the younger mercenary grunted. "Never liked fireworks after the War," he said, gravelly voice pitched so that only Kenta could hear him.

The ancient albino made a noise of agreement. "I have never liked gunpowder in general." His left hand unconsciously moved to his lower abdomen, where an old scar had just started itching.

Harrow barked out a raspy laugh. "Don't go too far. I like my guns." He tapped the shotgun obscured under his coat. Then he reached a hand up to touch his mask. "Bombs, though…I can do without those." He barked out another short laugh.

Instead of watching the fireworks, the pair watched the crowd. The display culminated in a massive explosion of red, white, and blue rockets that lit up the entire boardwalk for a brief moment. In that instant, a young girl ran up behind Delilah and slipped a delicate hand into the small purse the speakeasy-owner carried before quickly running off.

Immediately, the two split off: Harrow following the girl, and Kenta hurrying to Delilah and Rothstein.

The recent topic of conversation fresh on his mind, Kenta grabbed Delilah's purse and pulled it from her surprised grasp. Turning away he hunched over the bag, preparing for it to explode.

Rothstein turned from the railing at Delilah's gasp of surprise. In the gloom of twilight all he saw was a man grabbing his escort's purse and turning to flee. Stepping up to the thief, he launched a powerful haymaker at the short man's jaw. The blow connected with a solid smack and the sound of cracking bones.

Ignoring the cursing mob-boss as he cradled his now-broken hand, Kenta focused on the bag he had taken from Delilah. It had yet to explode, so he cautiously pried it open and began rifling through. Moments later, the bag was ripped from his hands as Delilah delivered a stinging slap to his face that set him back on his heels.

"Kenta! What in the name of all things holy do you think you're doing?" Her voice, while barely louder than a whisper, carried with it the promise of further violence if an explanation was not forthcoming.

The ancient Asian albino raised a hand to his cheek, seeming to marvel at her strike. "I had forgotten the strength of your kind, White Court," he muttered, sounding almost amused. Delilah looked around, alarmed that someone may have heard him, but the noise of the boardwalk covered their conversation well. Kenta continued when she turned back to glare at him. "A child ran up and either slipped something into your purse, or removed something. Mr. Harrow is chasing the girl in case it was the latter, while I came to ensure that both you and Mr. Rothstein," he gestured toward the Jewish mob-boss as he walked back from the Happy Clam, a towel full of ice held to his hand, "were in no danger."

Delilah frowned and began leafing through her purse's contents, checking for anything which may be missing. Her cash, a notepad, and a few pictures…nothing seemed out of place. Holding everything in place, she flipped the purse over to see what fell out.

Time seemed to slow as a round, blackened object fell from her purse. The smack of metal on flesh as the blackened coin landed in Kenta's waiting palm seemed to resonate into the night.

* * *

><p>AN 2

And cut. A bit more explanation, some more characterization, and the introduction of an enormous problem. See you in about a week! Feel free to review or PM me.


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